


A Canticle for Things Forgotten

by That_Hoopy_Frood



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Ishbal | Ishval, Mystery, Romance, Royai - Freeform, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7778116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Hoopy_Frood/pseuds/That_Hoopy_Frood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1908 • Ishval<br/>An uneasy ceasefire grips the Daliha District as Logue Lowe supplicates to Führer King Bradley on an errand of peace. Despite the armistice, Amestrian soldiers are dying. An Ishvalan sniper known only as the Eye in the Dark is out for blood, and desperate to uphold the ceasefire, the 27th Infantry Division sends Riza Hawkeye and Solf J. Kimblee to smoke him out. But Roy Mustang suspects Kimblee's aim isn't the death of one rogue Ishvalan sniper. For Hawkeye has a secret, one the Crimson Alchemist hungers for –– a power forged in fire.</p><p>Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood/Mangaverse</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Canticle for Things Forgotten

 

Ishval

1908

The Final Year of the Ishvalan War of Extermination

* * *

The desert nights were very cold. It had surprised Cadet Sander Akron. He lived in Central City, far away from the Eastern Frontier, and to him the desert had always been a place of sand and cacti and people passing out from heatstroke. During the day, the Ishvalan prefecture lived up to his expectations. But he didn't expect the nights to be quite so quiet, and quite so cold. It made him feel empty. The brilliant canvas of stars arced far above his head, and the deep indigo sky seemed to go on forever. Akron huddled into his white combat jacket, in part for the meager warmth it offered, mostly to hide from the rush of vertigo caused by the immensity of the unbroken starscape. He wanted the sun to rise but he dreaded the insanity the daytime brought. It was like a fever dream, a pulsing desert mirage he couldn't escape. Gunfire and brimstone and death, their bodies and souls broken on a wheel of blood spinning around and around. The nightmares lived under the sun, and the night brought only desolation and silence. Emptiness or insanity, together in the desert.

Akron wanted to go home.

Aside from preliminary shelling, the Amestrian army hadn't advanced much further into the Daliha District. Word on the grapevine was that the Ishvalan Grand Cleric Logue Lowe was in Central trying to negotiate a ceasefire with Führer King Bradley; an unsteady armistice had gripped the region as Akron and his comrades waited for word from headquarters. Akron suspected the war would soon be over. Despite himself, he hoped the Grand Cleric fared better than his Ishvalan countrymen. Even the most erstwhile nationalists among the military had grown tired of the fighting. Everyone wanted to be shut of Ishval.

As he continued his patrol, Akron marveled at how much of the city remained untouched. The limestone buildings were still standing –– empty, abandoned, pellucid white under the stars. The walls threw long shadows across the streets. Akron passed between the buildings, but when he looked down, he couldn't see his feet in the darkness. He felt like he was wading through shadows. He had been ordered to scout the easternmost sector of the district and to survey the city before the main military force stationed in the Gunja District swept through the area. A part of Akron didn't mind the solitude; no company meant no Ishvalan guerrillas sniping him from the windows. He just wished he could see his feet, and where he was stepping.

Akron heard pebbles shift somewhere above his head. He already had his rifle pointed towards the rooftops, scanning the darkness with keen eyes. Nothing moved. Akron fought the urge to hold his breath.

"Show yourself!" he ordered, hoping he sounded suitably imposing. "Don't make me hunt you down like an animal."

Akron felt the air shift behind him; a small breeze tickled the back of his neck. The cadet turned too late. Two red eyes glowed in the shadows. Ishvalan eyes. Akron fumbled with his gun but he couldn't find the safety. The stars winked; the desert stillness swallowed his terror.

"Oh god…" groaned Akron. He wanted to go home. He wanted to leave that terrible place. He didn't want to die.

"God is dead here," said the Eyes in the darkness.

Akron choked down a sob. His last thought before the bullet ripped through him was of his sister's crumb cake, sitting on the kitchen counter, the smell wafting through the windows, into the Amestrian sunshine…

* * *

Captain Maes Hughes kicked an errant stone. The stone was heavier than it looked, and he received a nasty bruise on his toe for his troubles. He thought taking some of his frustration out on the local scenery would make him feel better. It didn't.

Hughes' superiors were clamoring for a mission report, but the captain wasn't entirely sure what to tell them. Rather, he knew _what_ to tell them, and was actively procrastinating because they certainly weren't going to be very happy about it.

The Eye in the Dark had claimed the lives of seven men in as many days. Perhaps by wartime standards, seven deaths wasn't much cause for alarm. The number game is a cruel one when soldiers are dropping like dominoes. But people weren't supposed to die during armistice. Hughes presided over an uneasy ceasefire, and despite the lull in hostilities, his comrades in the 27th Infantry Battalion had been gunned down like animals. It was as brazen and arrogant a means of killing as Hughes had ever seen. But with Basque Grand in the Gunja District, Hughes didn't have the authority to order a full-scale assault to smoke the assassin out. Breaking the ceasefire at that delicate stage would bring only more suffering and death, and Hughes balked at the thought of sending in an alchemist. Since Kimblee had all the tact and subtlety of a bull in a china shop, Amestrian soldiers tended to end up dead along with the Ishvalans. Hughes wasn't entirely sure what to do.

But Central wasn't known for their patience. They would have results, or they would have his commission. Hughes doubted either option would prick their consciences to any great extent.

"This sniper nonsense is making my life difficult," grumbled Hughes. The captain didn't realize he had spoken aloud until Major Roy Mustang lifted his head from his coffee cup and looked at the captain blearily. "Well," Hughes corrected, "more difficult."

"I heard about Cadet Akron."

"Damn fool business anyway, going out there alone, at night, with no alchemical escort. What'd he think was gonna happen…"

"You didn't order him on patrol?"

"No I did not! Some stuffed shirt probably went over my head and ordered him to sweep the area," said Hughes, uncharacteristically dour. "What's the point of leaving me in charge if Grand goes around giving order anyway?"

"Are you sure Akron acted on Colonel Grand's orders, Hughes?"

"I wouldn't know, would I? They don't tell me anything!"

Mustang conceded the point. After a pause, he murmured, "The soldiers who found Akron said he had been shot once, through the heart. They say the front of his uniform was seared onto his skin."

"Same as the others. The sniper's weapon is powerful enough to melt flesh on impact. Not pleasant."

Roy just nodded a silent agreement. Burning flesh was something he was intimately acquainted with.

"Regardless of how he's doing it," continued Hughes, "he's becoming a right pain in the ass. I may just have to swallow my pride and ask for permission to send you in, Roy."

"I don't remember taking orders from you," said Roy.

"I'm splitting my sides. Look, I liaison between Basque Grand and the bigwigs in Central. If Bradley wants you to burn the place to the ground, then it doesn't particularly matter who the order is coming from."

"Then why not just save yourself the trouble and give the order yourself?"

Hughes blinked. "Because I don't _want_ you to burn the place to the ground. I sorta like breathing air that doesn't smell like cooked corpses."

Roy stared at his reflection is his coffee cup. There were bags under his eyes. Parts of his hair had been singed. He looked thin and haggard, like the desert was slowly eating him up, eroding him away.

Hughes sighed. "I suppose I have to tell them the truth. With the armistice in place, we can't advance any further into the Daliha District until we smoke out the Eye in the Dark." The captain smiled a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "How's that for irony, eh? We cut through men, women, and children like it's going out of style but faced with one clever sniper, we're about as useful as a screen door on a submarine."

Roy still didn't say anything. His coffee had gone cold; he drank it anyway. His gloves stayed in his pocket.

Hughes noticed his friend's silence. Roy Mustang had gone very quiet in recent days, thinking deep, profound thoughts he clearly didn't feel like sharing. Something had changed; Ishval had turned Roy stoic and cold, but he had never been so evidently depressed. Hughes suspected the cause wasn't the recent trouble with the Eye in the Dark. It went back to the day Hughes and Mustang had encountered each other on the battlefield for the first time…

"You're still thinking about what Kimblee said a few weeks ago, aren't you?" Hughes shook his head. "You shouldn't let the crazies get to you, Roy. Kimblee's got a brain like a rickety staircase, and people tend to vanish down rickety staircases. He made a valid point: we are just soldiers following orders. By the strictest definitions, it _is_ our job to cause tragedy. But there's not much credence behind the words when they come from a man like Kimblee. He'd be out here massacring people even if we weren't at war. I suspect he's enjoying himself."

Roy grunted. "I couldn't give a damn what Kimblee thinks."

A beat. "The Hawk's Eye, then?"

"She was always Riza to me, before," Roy waved his hand vaguely towards the desert, " _this_."

"So you knew her before Ishval?"

"She was my master's daughter."

"Oh. You mentioned Berthold once or twice while we were at the academy. Bit of a stick in the mud, if I remember... refused to become a State Alchemist." Hughes couldn't help himself. "You never mentioned he had a pretty daughter."

Roy frowned. "Don't you have a girl waiting for you back home, Maes?"

"That I do! No other woman holds a candle to my Gracia, so complimenting other girls merely espouses her beauty even more!"

"Err… right."

Hughes collected himself. "So why would the daughter of a guy who shirked the military be on the front lines in Ishval?"

"Beats me."

"You're just that inspiring, Roy. I bet she took one look at you cutting a dash in that uniform and immediately hopped the train to East City. _Ho ho, I'm the Flame Alchemist, Roy Mustang, and I will forge a new future for our country where lemon drops rain from the sky and people piss rainbows! –– Oh, Roy, you're so brave, I will fight for you and follow you wherever you go!_ You're a bad influence, my friend."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

Hughes chuckled. "Well, I suppose it's all for the better. If Cadet Hawkeye hadn't saved our asses that day, we'd be convalescing in that mass grave out beyond the hill."

"You're full of comforting thoughts, Hughes."

"Captain Hughes!" A soldier snapped to attention, saluting.

Hughes returned the gesture. "What is it, Sergeant?"

"A courier from Central, sir, from the desk of Storche."

Roy stiffened. "He's the personal assistant to Führer Bradley…"

Hughes was stone-faced. He opened the letter. The message was short, and by the time Hughes finished, he was frowning deeply. He nodded a small acknowledgment to the sergeant, who marched off. Roy searched for some clue on his friend's face.

"Maes?"

Hughes sighed. "Somehow, the Führer's office already knows about the Eye in the Dark." He smiled mirthlessly. "Seems I don't have to send that report after all."

* * *

Cadet Riza Hawkeye inspected the body. The bullet had punctured the aortic valve, shattered parts of the sternum. The soldier had bled to death in the street. The flies were already beginning to settle. The sun was high and hot, and the smell hit her like a slap in the face: the rank odor of cooked meat, of blood and sand and maggots…

Riza found that things tended to endure in the desert: trees hardened to petrified carcasses of stone, standing like pillars holding up the weight of the blue, blue sky… whole cities sat preserved in sand, the smell of rot and decay simmered in the heat, saturating the air…

The young sniper frowned deeply. She touched the front of the man's uniform. Most of the blood was crusted dry; some of it came away viscous and sticky on her fingers. The bullet had left a ragged hole in the soldier's breast bone.

It wasn't right. Sniping, done properly, offered a quick, painless death. A single bullet to the back of the head and the short drop into the darkness. But the assassin, whoever he was, had wanted to cause as much pain as possible. He had wanted his victim to suffer.

It was funny, Riza thought to herself, she had never really considered the Ishvalans a sadistic, vengeful people. It was easy for other soldiers to vilify their enemies; it was how they quieted their consciousnesses, allowed them to muffle the screaming. But Riza didn't have the luxury of detachment. When she sniped unsuspecting Ishvalans as they ran from the fire and fury of the state alchemists, it was hard for her to think of them as anything but victims.

But the children of Ishvala still had their teeth. The dead body at Riza's feet was proof enough of that.

As she peeled the uniform away, she searched for bullet fragments. The ammo jacket must have been very thin, leaving an impressive hole but absolutely no identifiable bullet signature. Riza could not determine the weapon from the wound.

"How long has he been dead?" she asked the two soldiers accompanying her. She didn't know their names.

"We heard the shot right before dawn, and began searching as soon as the sun rose. He couldn't have been dead more than an hour when we found him."

"The bullet disintegrated on impact," she said grimly. "There's no way for me to identify the weapon used to kill him, but judging from the impact pattern, the bullet was traveling at very high speeds. The angle of entry suggests the assassin had a clear line of sight, but chose to aim for the sternum instead of the forehead, forgoing a clean kill. We are looking at a highly trained sniper, one who seeks to inflict as much pain as possible."

"It's the Eye in the Dark, isn't it?" the other soldier asked quietly.

"Perhaps."

Riza had heard the stories. The fifth victim of the Eye in the Dark had taken hours to die. As he expired under the brutal ministrations of the combat medic, the man had described two maroon eyes glowing in the dark, like two rubies set in shadow: the calling card of the killer. The wounds of the dead men were all the same: a single hole through the heart, a shattered sternum, and no traceable bullet fragments. Not even a lingering smell of gunpowder amidst the blood and the flies.

Riza shouldered her rifle. "You two men carry him back to camp; I'll cover you from the rooftops."

The Eye in the Dark never attacked in the daylight, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. The buoyantly careless tended to end up dead, buried with little more than their uniforms and the pity of their fellows soldiers. Riza had no intention of dying that day. At that moment, at least, she had a job to do. She could worry about tomorrow if and when it came.

She scaled the nearest building, using the empty windows as footholds, pulling herself up onto the flat slab of limestone baking in the sun. The city glowed white; everything shimmered in the morning heat. The air rippled and the desert danced. As the two soldiers carried the dead man between them, constellating the street in blood, Riza tracked them from up high, balancing along the gutters as she jumped between the rooftops. Her boots didn't make a sound. Under her white combat jacket, she moved like a ghost.

When she saw the green Amestrian flags waving on the hill, she crouched down, resuming her watch over the encampment. She kept to the shadows, so the glare didn't catch the barrel of her gun. She watched her fellow soldiers meander through the campsite, their features indistinct, silhouetted against the sunlight like flecks of ash blowing from a fire.

"Hunting for Eyes, Miss Marksman?"

Riza spun around. She nearly fired her gun, then a hand caught the barrel of her rifle, lowering it. She let out a sharp breath.

"You shouldn't sneak up on someone like that, Major," she said stiffly, fighting to keep the tremor out of her voice. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you."

The man's pale eyes glinted like broken glass. His smile was cold and rancid. "You ought to give yourself more credit, cadet; you are far too disciplined to fire your weapon erratically at the slightest sound."

"What do you want, Major?" Riza caught herself: "At the risk of sounding blunt, sir, I can ill afford to be distracted from my watch. Not under the current circumstances."

"I'm here _because_ of the current circumstances," said Solf J. Kimblee. His smile vanished. "This has been the seventh death in as many days. My superiors want answers, Cadet Hawkeye."

She didn't have them. "It's not my place to speculate, sir. I was tasked by Captain Hughes to recover the body of the latest victim. That's all."

"Do you know what killed him?"

"I know _how_ he was killed. Sniper fire. I can't identify the weapon used to kill him, however."

"An oversight on your part, Cadet? Surely seven dead bodies is enough to provide some manner of insight."

Riza's hackles raised. "I'm a sniper myself, sir. If there were any way to trace the ammunition, the assassin would already be in our custody. I know my bullets, and I know my guns."

"My thoughts precisely." Kimblee inclined his head. His lip curled into a sneer. "We're dealing with a man who operates outside the purview of your considerable expertise, Cadet."

"So it would seem, sir."

"Awful, isn't it… feeling helpless. Surplus to requirement."

Riza said nothing.

"It's a small wonder Captain Hughes hasn't seen fit to do anything to rectify the situation. During this oh-so delicate armistice, Basque Grand entrusted the Daliha District to him, and all the captain has to show for it are seven deaths in seven days… the same killer, the same untraceable weapon. It is rather damning, isn't it?"

Riza, again, kept quiet. Maes Hughes outranked Kimblee; the Major's impertinence bordered on seditious, but Riza thought it best to keep such thoughts to herself. She didn't like Kimblee. The way he leered at her when he thought she wasn't looking made her flesh crawl. She didn't relish the thought of provoking him. He was as volatile as his combustive alchemy, and just as dangerous.

"We are not engaged in outright combat at the moment, sir, which is what makes the Eye in the Dark's attacks so unusual, and so brazen. The captain doesn't want to risk breaking this armistice by triggering a larger attack." Or risk jeopardizing the ceasefire by letting your insane alchemy loose upon the city, she wanted to say, but didn't. "Unlike the rest of Ishval, we have no intelligence pertaining to the layout or population density of this sector of the Daliha District. We have no way of knowing if this sniper is a lynchpin for a greater assault. In the absence of Colonel Grand, Captain Hughes is waiting for word from central command. "

"Fortunately, he no longer has to. The word is the Führer's official courier is en route to base camp right about now." Kimblee paused. They heard a bell sounding over the city, tolling eight times. "And it seems as though you've just been relieved of duty, Miss Marksman. What auspicious timing."

"Indeed it is, sir." Riza relaxed her grip on her rifle, but she didn't put it away. "Indeed it is."

She followed Kimblee as he descended into the city. He was tall and rake thin; if Riza tried looking at him from the corner of her eye, she couldn't see him at all. His white combat jacket, still immaculately pressed, simply deliquesced into the heat shimmers. She watched him, and she wondered, amidst the blood and sweat and flies, just how the Crimson Alchemist kept his uniform so clean.

* * *

Captain Hughes was waiting for her after she checked in with the quartermaster. He, Major Armstrong, and Major Mustang sat off to the side of the encampment, on a tor overlooking the valley below. Hughes and Armstrong kept their hoods pulled over their heads, shielding their faces from the oppressive midday sun. But Roy kept his hood lowered, his black hair like an inkblot in the sand. Riza suspected he didn't like the thought of sneaking around, camouflaging himself.

She supposed setting entire cities on fire tended to make stealthy warfare redundant.

Riza saw his ignition gloves sticking out of his pocket. Unlike Basque Grand and Alex Armstrong, who wore their gauntlets at all times, or Kimblee, who never covered the transmutation circles on his palms, the Major didn't wear his gloves unless he absolutely had to. Since their conversation with the Crimson Alchemist, several weeks earlier, Roy kept them in his pocket.

"Fall in, Cadet," ordered Hughes.

"Yes sir." Riza stood to attention.

"Mission report."

"The body was recovered in the easternmost sector of the Daliha District, sir. The soldiers accompanying me identified the man as Cadet Sander Akron, 27th Infantry Battalion. Cadet Akron was scouting the area for Ishvalan guerrillas when he was attacked."

Hughes' cheeks flushed. "Oh for the love of… I gave express orders that no one was to scout the sector without an alchemical escort! The man was asking for trouble."

"Fool," murmured Mustang. "Who gave the order, Cadet Hawkeye?"

Riza was about to answer, but Hughes was still worked up: "Probably the same bastard who alerted Central without my knowing!"

"It's a moot point now," said Major Alex Armstrong, sitting nearby, knuckles resting on his knees. His voice rumbled through the marrow of Riza's bones. "Akron is dead."

Hughes sighed. "This whole situation is making me look like a right ass. I have Central breathing down my neck. I'm in it up to my eyeballs, gentlemen. If we don't smoke this guy out, Bradley'll come down here and section me himself. And Basque Grand will probably help him."

"There is always our first option: I could destroy that entire section of the city," said Roy quietly. "That would most certainly kill anyone hiding there."

The Flame Alchemist didn't sound particularly enthusiastic. Riza could hardly blame him. The stress and hours of sacrificed sleep hung at his eyes, aging him. Roy Mustang had once had a soft, open face; there was a time when all the girls in Riza's village had been infatuated with Master Hawkeye's handsome young apprentice. But combat had hardened him. There was tension in his jaw, crows feet in the corners of his eyes. He stooped, like he wanted to sink into the dirt and disappear.

Riza inadvertently scratched her back, in the space between her shoulder blades. Her own touch felt sharp, like a stab of regret.

Armstrong nodded. "An effective, if brutal, method."

"For all we know, there are humanitarians quartered in the city," argued Hughes. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than his subordinates. "There's word the Rockbells are in Ishval. I don't want to be responsible for the deaths of Amestrian civilians."

Armstrong lowered his massive head. "I know you don't approve, Captain, but we are not swimming in alternatives. Have Mustang burn him out. End this nonsense."

"We are technically under ceasefire, Major, so long as the Ishvalan religious leaders are meeting with the Führer in Central. I don't want to break armistice––"

"The Eye in the Dark has already broken the armistice, sir! Anything less than outright retaliation just makes us look ineffective."

Riza felt inclined to agree with Major Armstrong, although a part of her hated herself for it. The only grain of atonement she allowed herself was the thought that taking lives would somehow end the war sooner rather than later.

Hughes had gone very quiet. Roy was the first to notice.

"Hughes?"

The sun reflected in the colonel's glasses, two golden orbs where eyes ought to be. He crunched the courier's telegram in his fists. "There's something more… I'm sorry, Roy, but I can't send you to the front line. According to this," he threw the balled-up telegram at a hole in the rocks; the paper missed, "there is already a plan in place. This is out of my hands, now."

"Whose plan?" rumbled Armstrong.

Hughes opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

Roy's eyes narrowed. "With Basque Grand leading the attack in the Gunja District, you are the commanding officer in this sector. If you are not giving the orders, then who is? Who would have the audacity—"

"Try Central."

"Central has no direct control of operations in this district! _They're not here_."

"There's a chain of command I have to obey, Roy!"

Riza thought it was high time to make a discreet exit; as a general rule, she made an effort to avoid getting drawn into conflicts amongst the higher-ups. "Excuse me, sirs, I must debrief my replacement."

"Just a moment, Cadet Hawkeye," said Hughes, ignoring Roy. "I haven't dismissed you. Your orders have changed."

"Sir?"

"This command comes from Führer King Bradley himself: he wants our best counter-sniper to bring down the Eye in the Dark." Hughes looked at her over the rims of his glasses. "You're young. From what I understand, you weren't even done your academy training when they shipped you out here. But you're the best. I think your record speaks for itself, Hawkeye."

Riza couldn't argue. "I believe it does, sir."

"Hold on a moment, Hughes," Roy broke in, "the last time someone scouted Daliha on their own, Cadet Hawkeye's team had to drag his corpse back to base camp."

Hughes looked like he had tasted something unpleasant. "That's why Cadet Hawkeye won't be going alone. Bradley ordered an alchemical escort for her. A crack team of our best counter-sniper and our most skilled alchemist will enter Daliha undetected and eliminate the assassin before any more Amestrian lives are lost."

Armstrong nodded. "A good strategy."

Roy seemed to unwind a little. "That sounds reasonable. Quick, discreet, and we maintain the armistice. Cadet Hawkeye, you don't have a spare combat jacket, do you? I'm afraid I, well..." he looked down, almost sheepishly, "set mine on fire."

Riza said, without a trace of irony, "I always do, sir. I would hate for you to blow my cover."

"Officer Cadet Hawkeye," interrupted Hughes; he didn't meet her eyes, "you won't be going with Major Mustang. Bradley already has an alchemist selected."

"Hughes…"

"Sorry, Roy. Bradley believes the Crimson Alchemist is the more qualified candidate."

"The Führer mentioned me by name? How flattering." Kimblee ghosted the edge of the group. His smile was a white slash cut into his face. "I get to crush Ishvalan scum and spend some quality time with the delightful Cadet Hawkeye. I know we soldiers are here on official assignment, but this feels positively indulgent."

Kimblee stood beside her, and Riza's nostrils flared. She had a sensitive nose, owing it to years spent in apothecaries and herb gardens trying to find raw materials for her father's projects. Kimblee smelled like ozone, like lightning. Like something unwieldy and dangerous.

But she didn't protest. It wasn't her place. She raised her hand in salute to Hughes. "Is there anything else, sir?"

Hughes didn't look very happy about it. "The Führer left the hows, whens, heretos and howfores to your discretion, you two."

"Shall we brief you on our proposed strategy once it is in place, Captain Hughes?"

"No." Kimblee tilted his head in silent question. Hughes explained, "Plausible deniability. We're under a ceasefire. If you two get caught by the Ishvalan forces, Bradley and the rest of us will officially disavow your actions."

Kimblee chuckled. "Caught by the Ishvalans? You have an interesting sense of humor, Captain."

Riza's attention was drawn to Colonel Mustang. His fists were clenched, his knuckles white against his skin. His onyx eyes looked hard and flinty. She disliked Major Kimblee; Roy Mustang positively loathed him. Riza suspected it was more than a little alchemical rivalry. The two men were very different. Despite the similarities in their science, they had very different ways of doing things. Roy was armed with a resilient, albeit damaged, sense of justice, burdened with a painful awareness of the suffering he caused. Kimblee's own actions never seemed to prick whatever conscience he was reputed to have.

Though, Riza thought to herself, regardless of their moral or personal justifications –– or lack thereof –– behind their actions, people still ended up dead when Solf J. Kimblee and Roy Mustang swept through their homes.

Even though Riza had once trusted the open-faced, hopelessly optimistic young alchemist, she wasn't entirely certain she knew the man he had become. The man living in her home all those years ago had not been a soldier. He had not been a killer. In its own strange way, Major Mustang was more a mystery to her than Kimblee would ever be.

The Crimson Alchemist turned to her, breaking her from her thoughts. "Shall we start tomorrow then, Cadet?"

Riza nodded curtly. Pretending to doff a hat, Kimblee strode away. It would have been comical, if the man wasn't so damn terrifying.

She stood there a little while longer, then Hughes motioned for her to go. "You're dismissed, Cadet. Get some rest.

"You're gonna need it."

* * *

That night, Roy Mustang found Kimblee at the edge of the encampment, staring at the dirt. The Crimson Alchemist avoided the company of the other soldiers. Aside from the occasional cup of lukewarm coffee, he didn't even seem to eat. He kept himself to himself, which irritated Roy. Kimblee was one of those men one would do well to keep an eye on.

"You didn't seem very surprised by Bradley's new orders, Kimblee."

Kimblee was drawing transmutation arrays with the toe of his boot. His expression was inscrutable. "As soldiers, we are expected to react to dynamic situations with a certain level of flexibility."

"As soldiers, we are also expected to respect our commanding officer's right to discretion, and obey his commands implicitly."

"Are you suggesting something? Out with it, Mustang. You're not one to dance around a direct point."

"Hughes never made a report to Central. Someone did."

Half-obscured by the shadows, Kimblee's face looked almost wolfish. "Do you mean to accuse me of sedition?"

"Perhaps I do."

"You believe I would work behind my commanding officer's back with the express intent of getting assigned to this counter-sniper team, the target being an Ishvalan assassin who has killed seven men in seven days, with the threat of disavowal hanging over our heads should we fail?"

Were it any other man, it would have sounded ridiculous. But Roy knew Kimblee. "Yes."

"Why? Just for the hell of it?"

"To stroke your ego."

Kimblee barked a laugh. "That's rather rich, coming from you. Perhaps, Mustang, you simply cannot accept the reality that my skills as an alchemist are superior to yours."

Roy snarled, "This has nothing to do with me!"

"Doesn't everything?"

"You glory in chaos and destruction, Kimblee. I won't have you dragging Cadet Hawkeye down that path, too. You called in favors with the top brass in Central to get this assignment, and made sure Hawkeye was the sniper accompanying you."

Kimblee arched his eyebrows. "Oh? It's an interesting proposition. Granted, I do have a vested interest in the young lady."

"Why."

"Because she violates the principle of equivalent exchange, Mustang. Motivation and execution are transitive properties of any action. Riza Hawkeye lacks any manner of will or motivation in her work but has proven herself an exceptional marksman… a prodigy, even. It is art without the brush, music without the instrument. The equivalence does not exist. I suppose, at her most basic, she presents an interesting case study. I want to know what keeps her here, keeps her fighting."

"Then you admit you manipulated the chain of command."

"I admit nothing… but I intend to make the most of an unusual turn of events."

"She's not some laboratory specimen for you to dissect!"

"No, she's a laboratory notebook," Kimblee's smile was predatory in the dark; he put a finger on his back, traced patterns down his spine, "with notes scrawled in the margins."

Roy grabbed the front of Kimblee's uniform. Mustang was shorter, but Kimblee was thin and willowy, and Roy had no trouble lifting him from his seat. _"How do you know about that, you bastard?"_ he hissed.

"You're not the first one to cross paths with Berthold Hawkeye, Flame Alchemist. Combustion. Ignition. Kinetic energy. We're not so different, you and I. We're just moving particles around until something burns under our fingertips."

 _"Did she show you?"_ Did you force her to show you, Roy almost asked.

Roy had seen the array three times. She had shown him in the small, quiet hours before the dawn. The first time, Roy had vomited the meager supper he'd choked down the night before. The second time, she stood still for hours as he traced her back, and he learned the secrets of flame alchemy. The third time, she had given him a pair of white gloves and a train ticket to Central City. He wouldn't see her again until Ishval.

Kimblee pretended to think about the question. "Well, being as I'm not shooting flames from my hands like a demented firework, I should think the answer to that question was obvious. While Berthold was kind enough to share some of his considerable alchemic wisdom, the impartation of certain secrets he left to the discretion of the young lady guarding them." Kimblee brushed Roy's hands off his lapels. He straightened his jacket. "In any case, regardless of whatever personal disinclinations you may harbor, I am the most skilled alchemist. Riza Hawkeye is the most skilled marksman. We will hunt down this Ishvalan scumstain, and we will manage perfectly well without you."

Roy pursed his lips in a tight line. He fought to keep his temper under control. Kimblee's silver tongue was renowned; he decorated his words with eloquence and poise. Even in the smoking ruins of Ishval, the Crimson Alchemist exuded the composure of the perfect gentlemen. Rumor was he kept a handkerchief in his pocket, to wipe the blood of his boots when the streets ran slick with it.

But Roy Mustang knew about the Stone sitting in the Crimson Alchemist's stomach. Its power saturated Kimblee's blood, dripped from his words like poison. It had been enough to envenom the minds of the stuffed shirts in Central, but being in Ishval had allowed Roy to build a certain tolerance to the charms of a clever turn of phrase, a pleasant lie, a thinly-veiled threat. Kimblee may have been able to worm his way into the Führer's favor, but the dogs of the military had tougher skins.

Roy took a deep breath, felt the oxygen diffuse through his lungs. Oxygen was as much a part of his soul as his biological chemistry; it allowed Roy to produce his flame. To temper his power, he had never manipulated flames on scales larger or distances longer than the next Ishvalan compound slated for destruction. But being the Flame Alchemist came with a certain level of cognizance. He was acutely aware that the respiration of every person on the planet was a lot of oxygen, and that every breath was like firelighter.

With the secrets of flame alchemy, and the Stone to amplify his power, Solf J. Kimblee could scorch the world.

Riza had something the Crimson Alchemist desperately wanted.

"Hey, Kimblee."

The other man looked up from his doodles in the sand. "Hmm?"

"She dies, you die, too." Roy surprised himself by sounding very calm. "Except slower."

But Kimblee doesn't even have to kill her, he thought miserably, if he just lifted her shirt…

Roy didn't want to think about that.

"That, Major, depends entirely on our Ishvalan friend." Kimblee was still feigning ignorance. It made Roy's blood boil. "But I'm sure the cadet and I will do our utmost to ensure each other's safety."

"I'll hold you to that. We can't afford to lose Cadet Hawkeye. She's the best marksman we have."

Kimblee was straight faced. "I'm sure that's the only reason for your commendable concern."

Roy turned to go. He wished the Crimson Alchemist would wear gloves on his downtime. Kimblee rested his hands with his palms up, and Roy felt the stare of the two transmutation circles burning holes into his back as he stalked away.

* * *

For Riza, assembling her sniper rifle was like reciting a mantra of prayer. Her thoughts slowed and quieted. She held her gun in her hands, knew the weight and mass of every part, imagined herself as an extension of the machine –– because machines didn't feel pain. For a small time, she felt like she was putting things back together.

She sat alone in the tent, the sides breathing as the wind howled across the desert. Her two roommates were dead: one had fallen when an Ishvalan warrior monk broke the line and slit her throat. The other had been trapped under rubble when Roy Mustang was ordered to set the whole city block on fire. Riza wasn't sure if the girl had been cooked or expired from smoke inhalation. But, until command shipped more cadets to the front lines, Riza had the tiny tent to herself.

She didn't sleep much; nightmares and nerves saw to that. At least, she reflected, cleaning her weapon allowed her that small moment of respite. Maintenance was a welcome distraction; it gave her something to do. The only thing the state alchemists could do was stare at their transmutation circles and wonder where it had all gone so horribly wrong. She was luckier than certain people…

Riza picked up the scope and found that her hands were shaking. She looked at the scope, debated whether or not to throw it across the tent, then set it down on the floor. There was a knot in her throat, but Riza refused to cry. She hadn't cried at her father's funeral. She hadn't cried when she killed her first Ishvalan. She hadn't cried when she felt a tingle run up her spine before the plume of fire exploded over the city, and she saw the power of flame alchemy for the first time. The sand and grit in her eyes soaked up the tears. She refused to pity herself, but she still carried a kernel of regret in her chest, like a weight pressing on her diaphragm, making it hard to breathe.

She was a selfish, naive fool. When she gave the secrets of flame alchemy to a dog of the military, what did she expect to happen? He was a soldier, a state alchemist. When an order was given, any autonomy he exercised over his gifts defaulted to his superior officers, who, unlike those two wistful dreamers standing near a gravestone, harbored no reservations about using Roy's fire to raze hell.

It was her fault. Roy was just following orders, but Riza had made the choice to follow her heart. And she had been wrong to trust him with her father's work. Some mistakes, she knew, would brand her forever.

Riza fixed the field bayonet to the barrel of her gun. She pulled the bolt handle. The rifle felt suddenly very heavy in her hands.

She looked around the sandy tarpaulin that served as her floor. It was covered in empty ration packs and water skins. Her military blues rested in a neat pile near her cot. After some searching, she swore. She had left her oil cloth with the replacement watchman, who was currently on the other side of the encampment.

Riza removed her shirt and used it to polish the solid wooden stock. The cool night air felt good on her bare skin. She thought about the Eye in the Dark, skulking around the city, picking off Amestrians that wandered too far from the light. Hughes had made it abundantly clear to everyone in the 27th Infantry Battalion that no one was to break camp that night. He had brought along the hulking Alex Armstrong to hammer the point home. Riza cracked a tiny smile; once the Major removed his shirt and Hughes started gushing about his girl back home, everyone had hurriedly agreed to the captain's orders, just so they could leave.

She was happy for Captain Hughes. He had someone waiting for him, someone to go home to. He had promises to keep before he was allowed to die.

Riza heard movement outside her tent, the rustle of fabric as the flap was pulled open. She looked down; she was naked from the waist up. Her back was facing the entrance… her father's secrets in plain view of anyone who cared to look…

"Cadet, I have to speak with –– oh." Major Mustang stared at her, realized he was staring, and suddenly took a profound interest in the top of the tent. "I should have knocked. My apologies."

Riza sighed. She didn't have to hide anything from Roy Mustang. She did, she decided, have to put her shirt back on in the presence of a superior officer.

"How does one knock on a tent?" she asked, too quietly for Roy to hear her. She put her shirt on and set her rifle aside. Standing, she snapped to attention. "There is no apology necessary, sir. You have seen it before."

Mustang turned pink. "I have?" He couldn't help himself. "I think I would remember…"

"I was referring to my tattoo, sir."

"Oh."

He was incorrigible, Riza decided. She didn't dare say it aloud. "Can I help you with something, sir?"

Roy opened his mouth. He closed it again. Riza waited patiently for the Major to collect his thoughts.

"Sir?" she prompted. "Is this about my assignment with Major Kimblee?"

He nodded. "I don't trust him, Hawkeye."

"It hadn't escaped my notice, sir."

"Not many things do," he said wryly. He sobered. "But Major Kimblee is a man motivated by his will to power. I think there might be more at stake than one Ishvalan sniper. Just…" He gave her a look. "You're one of our best, Cadet. Don't get yourself killed."

"Is that an order, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then I will make every attempt––"

"No," said Roy, cutting her off. "No attempts. No trying. I won't allow you that ambiguity of choice. You do not die. Understood?"

"Completely, sir."

He nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but then thought better of it, and turned to go.

Riza asked the question before she could stop herself. "Are you happy, sir?"

He froze. Riza wanted to kick herself. It was, without a doubt, the single most asinine thing she had ever said. They were in the middle of a war zone. Major Mustang was being exploited as a human weapon. His prowess as a soldier was measured in ash and charred corpses. He had wanted to create things, and all he had done was destroy. What was there to be happy about?

I made this, Riza realized, a cold stone sinking into the pit of her stomach. I made him.

"You told me," said Riza softly, "you said that you would only ever be happy when you made this country a better place… that dying like a dog didn't matter, so long as you made a difference. I can't imagine this was the difference you had in mind."

Roy looked down. Down at the dirt and the sand, the faded bloodstains Riza had been too tired to clean up.

"This place has a way of smothering silly, childish dreams," he murmured. "I don't think any of us signed up for this madness."

She had just wanted him to be happy.

"Do you still care, sir?"

He sighed. "I have to."

"Even though it hurts?"

" _Because_ it hurts, Cadet."

Riza closed her eyes, and she was standing by her father's grave: Berthold Hawkeye, the stone read, born 1860, died 1905. There was no epitaph. Riza had left a bouquet of lilies under her father's name. She hated lilies. The flower could be used to treat burns and prevent the formation of scar tissue. Her father would have her cultivate the roots of the lily flower to prepare ointments and creams. Lilies reminded Riza of fire.

The sky was overcast on the day they buried him. Dead leaves pirouetted on the wind. Gray clouds rose like an ocean swell above the mountains. It was going to rain. Riza had never said much to her father's apprentice, skirting around him in the rare moments he wasn't studying, knowing him and her father occupied a world she could never belong to. Through no fault of his own, Roy made her feel lonely in her own home. But she liked to listen to him. She liked the way he looked into the middle distance when he talked about the future, like he could see something she couldn't, and was desperately trying to pull it down to earth with the force of his gaze.

The state alchemist with the hard onyx eyes wore a very different gaze.

I'm sorry for turning you into this, she wanted to say. She wanted to grab him by his lapels and scream at him that none of it was his fault. Order him to stand up straight, to hold his head high against the burden that was not his to bear. She wanted to do a lot of things. She wanted to say a lot of things.

Captain Hughes had his promises to keep back in Central… to the woman he loved, to the prospect of a future with her.

Hughes had his tomorrow. Riza intended to hold Roy to his. To remind him that his words to her were more than empty oaths. To make him promise to live and achieve his dream. To endure. To survive, even if it broke his heart.

There was a lot Riza wanted to say. But she didn't.

The silence between them lengthened into something heavy and cold. Roy cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you, Cadet."

"I appreciate your concern, sir." Her voice seemed to come from far away. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Hawkeye. Watch your back."

Riza understood his meaning well enough.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Kimblee was humming again. Riza very much wanted to shoot him in the foot.

It could be worse, she supposed. He could be singing.

They had been scouring the Daliha District for several hours. The white buildings, the awnings, the lantern alcoves honeycombing the walls were beginning to blur together. The heat wasn't helping. But Kimblee moved with purpose through the winding streets. He seemed to know where he was going. At certain intersections, he ordered Riza to climb the gutters and mark a rooftop cornerstone with a stick of red chalk. She obeyed without complaint, even when her muscles began to ache from hauling her rifle up the side of buildings. Kimblee stayed on street level, watching her, offering the occasional instruction concerning the chalk, but mostly standing with his hands in his pockets, humming.

Riza knew Kimblee was dying for her to ask about the song. He craved her attention. But she decided she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, even if it did mean sacrificing his silence.

The Crimson Alchemist's apparent lack of concern surprised her. Some of Riza's fellow soldiers had pointed out that Kimblee removed his military jacket whenever he performed alchemy, probably to keep it clean as his victims exploded into clouds of blood and gray matter. But as they meandered through the abandoned city, Kimblee kept his uniform buttoned. He kept his hands –– and his transmutation arrays –– tucked away in his trouser pockets. He seemed almost at ease, enjoying the stroll under the blue sky. It fell to Riza to play sentry.

As the morning waned into the afternoon, the sun rose higher and the day grew warmer. Riza was soon drenched in sweat under her combat jacket. She could feel the ground burning through the soles of her boots. The butt of her sniper rifle was hot in her hands. She blinked to keep the moisture out of her eyes, and wished she could take a position in one of the empty windows. She always felt more comfortable sitting above the city, where she could see everything. Walking beside Kimblee, looking up at the buildings flanking the streets, made her feel uncharacteristically claustrophobic. She wished the Crimson Alchemist would stop enjoying himself and get on with the job at hand. And cease humming in the meantime.

Kimblee took a sudden turn, squeezing through a narrow alleyway. Riza followed, shuffling backwards, rifle pointed towards the street, covering the Major's back. They emerged in what must have once been a town square. Water troughs, now bone dry, bordered a stone well. Merchant stalls lined the edges of the square; the rotten meat and fruit was obscured by clouds of botflies, fat from gorging themselves on the refuse.

Riza scanned the buildings hemming the square. Hinges swung from empty windows, creaking in the wind. She could smell necrosis in the air, the stench of farm animals abandoned by their fleeing owners and left to die in the desert heat. No one had been around for a long time.

"We'll wait here," Kimblee decided.

"Yes, sir." Riza looked around. "The streets converging on the square all point towards that large building near the cliff face. It is an easily defendable position, Major."

"I agree. You may set yourself up on the rooftop, Cadet."

Riza nodded. In the typical Ishvalan architectural style, the buildings didn't have a front door, and none of the interior rooms were locked. Riza and Kimblee climbed the stairs to the roof. She positioned herself on her stomach overlooking the square, her sniper rifle partially obscured by the awnings of the market stalls below her, hiding her from view. Kimblee lounged against the cliff face, behind Riza and out of her line of sight.

"The Eye in the Dark only comes out at night, Cadet," said Kimblee, slightly amused. "While I admire your diligence, there's no need to stay in such an uncomfortable position until nightfall."

Riza didn't look from the scope of her gun. "With all due respect, sir, we would do well to maintain our vigilance. And this is the most comfortable position I've been in all day."

"As you wish, Miss Marksman."

"Please don't call me that, Major."

"My apologies, Cadet Hawkeye. It will not happen again."

"Thank you, sir."

Riza resumed her watch, peering at the square through the scope of her rifle. From the rooftop, she could see her chalk markings on buildings throughout the city, forming concentric circles converging at the town square. When night fell, Kimblee would alchemize a set of controlled explosions at the chalk markings, forcing the Eye in the Dark towards the open space, where Riza had a clear shot. Were it a group of military grunts or any other state alchemist setting the fires to smoke the assassin out, Riza wouldn't have worried. But Kimblee wasn't renowned for being disciplined. She wasn't even sure he could –– or wanted –– to control his combustive alchemical reactions. If Kimblee incinerated the entire district, the ceasefire wouldn't hold for very long. The thought of catalyzing another wave of bloodshed made her nauseous.

Kimblee started humming again, and bloodshed was suddenly on the forefront of Riza's thoughts.

Her shoulders must have tensed, because she sensed the Crimson Alchemist shifting on his perch.

"Recognize the tune, Cadet?"

"I can't say I do, sir." She could fee him standing behind her; he made her skin itch. "I haven't listened to music in a very long time."

"That is a shame. Well, no matter. I can't imagine very many Amestrians would recognize a hymn to Ishvala if they heard one."

Riza kept her sniper rifle fixed on the square, but she turned her head in the direction of Kimblee's voice.

"When the 27th Infantry Battalion moved through the Gunja District under Brigadier General Fessler," he suddenly changed the subject; Riza sighed in resignation, "I was ordered to destroy an Ishvalan seminary. The holy site was a front for an underground weapons trade, funneling munitions and supplies to warrior monks on the front lines. I was more than happy to see it reduced to rubble."

Why is he telling me this? Riza thought. Just let me concentrate on the mission. Just stop talking.

"However, our intel turned out to be less than accurate. The seminary was completely empty. Even the holy relics were gone, ransacked. Stripped bare. I only found one person there, a young woman. She prostrated herself before her false idol, on her knees in the sand, surrounded by dead Ishvalans. She had blood on her face, like her red eyes were melting from their sockets. But she showed no fear. She continued her prayers regardless of my presence.

"I asked her to sing me a song. In return, I would spare her life. She sang me a canticle, part of a rich hymn praising Ishvala. The hymn is usually sung in unison by a monastic choir, but she managed on her own. More than managed. She sang so purely. She had such a beautiful voice. Perfect pitch… the words floated like motes of dust in the sunlight. The music was the pulse and the breath and the lifeblood of the world… I have never forgotten that song. It's like a lullaby for my soul."

Riza suddenly hated Kimblee, as much as Roy hated him, as much as it was possible to hate another human being.

"Did you do as you promised, sir?" she asked quietly.

He had knelt beside her, his voice right next to her ear. "I alchemized her blood into thermite, an iron-based explosive. The exothermic reaction destroyed the seminary completely."

Riza smelled ozone, the scent of dead and dying things.

"We are soldiers, Riza Hawkeye," said Kimblee. "This is what we do. This is who we are."

* * *

In the end, Roy didn't tell Maes Hughes about his plan to follow Kimblee into Daliha. The captain already had enough to worry about, and even though Roy knew Hughes would never stop him from doing what he thought was right, the Flame Alchemist didn't want to get his friend into any more trouble. The captain was slowly inching up Central's proverbial shitlist, and while both Hughes and Roy had their ambitions, it wasn't the sort of ascension they had in mind.

Roy threw on his combat jacket; he slipped his ignition gloves over his fingers. The fabric was scratchy, like the striking surface of a matchbox, marred with grooves and abrasions to generate kinetic friction when Roy snapped his fingers.

Riza had made him his first pair of gloves. He used them during his examination, and at the end of the day traded the coarse prototypes for a silver pocket watch and the promise of better gloves. A state alchemist would need the best material, after all. Only the finest murder weapons.

Roy was growing old and cynical. War had that effect. He was intimately acquainted with death; he had become walking, breathing momento mori. Each chance corpse reminded him of a delicate mortality that was so easily burned away.

The Flame Alchemist didn't encounter anyone on the edge of the encampment. Kimblee and Hawkeye had left that morning, and as the day aged and died, Hughes had been forced to pull sentries from their watches. Small skirmishes had broken out at the edge of the district, near the bulk of Basque Grand's forces. The whisper amongst the men was that the negotiations in Central had turned sour.

Roy didn't know what to think. Seven years ago, he would have been naive enough to believe Logue Low and the Ishvalan clerics would find middle ground with Führer King Bradley. But after Presidential Decree 3066, the prospect of compromise seemed as far fetched and childish as his dream of a democratic Amestris.

The lone benefit of the entire situation, thought Roy wryly, was, due to Hughes' thinning the sentries, there was no one to stop Roy from sneaking out of camp. Ishval rolled out from underneath him, the gutted buildings and the smoking ruins. Darkness percolated from the earth like weeping sores, flooding the streets in shadow. The Daliha District was a labyrinth of limestone and sand, half hidden by the night. Somewhere in there was a sniper and an alchemist, and a murderer with a taste for Amestrian blood.

Roy didn't hesitate. He began his descent into the city.

"Rather late for a run to the latrine, isn't it, Major?"

Roy froze. The voice was unmistakable, like an earthquake with vocal chords.

"Major Armstrong," Roy tried to sound chipper, but his heart wasn't really into it. "I was just—"

"Going after Cadet Hawkeye and Major Kimblee, sir."

There was little use in denying it. Roy just hoped Armstrong didn't take pity on him and crush him in one of his brawnier hugs.

But it was an irrational fear. Alex Armstrong didn't go around proffering hugs anymore. The most he did was rest a tired paw on the shoulders of the other soldiers and mutter a few words of half-crafted encouragement. Ishval had sucked the soul even out of him.

No, Roy realized. Major Armstrong was one of the _only_ men with the shreds of his humanity still haphazardly patched together. His soul was still very much intact, and it railed against the Amestrian campaign. It cradled dead children and cried its eyes out.

"Yes," answered Roy. "I'm tracking Kimblee and Hawkeye. I need to…"

He didn't really know what to say. His suspicions of Kimblee were unfounded, and revealing his knowledge of Riza's back was too terrible a betrayal to contemplate. Roy trailed off into inconclusive silence.

"You have business with the Crimson Alchemist," said Armstrong simply.

"Yes."

"Are you going to kill him?"

"I don't want to." It wasn't an answer. The two alchemists considered each other. Roy felt like he was looking up into the face of a marble statue. "Are you going to stop me, Major?"

"No. Just tell me what it is you intend to do, so if Captain Hughes asks me, I don't have to lie to him."

"Tell him there's something I have to protect."

"I understand, Flame Alchemist. An unwavering sense of duty is a trait passed down through the Armstrong family for generations." The Major didn't proclaim it. The words sounded dull and dead.

"Thank you, Major." Roy took a few steps, then turned around. His expression was pensive. "They're sending you home, aren't they?"

The other alchemist didn't betray any emotion. It was hard to imagine such a stoic giant of a man breaking down on the battlefield. "Yes sir. In two days time."

Roy nodded. "Good. Guard your humanity well, Major Armstrong. You may well have to remind us of ours, should we live long enough to see home again."

"In that case, sir, I urge you to survive."

"That's my intention."

"Give Cadet Hawkeye my best, sir."

Roy couldn't help himself. His mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.

He turned from the encampment and descended into the valley below.

* * *

Riza spotted them as the sun was going down. They emerged from sand tunnels dug under the buildings. There were four of them, three boys and a girl, none of them older than 15. They were starving, their tawny skin clinging to thin, brittle bones. Their cheekbones were sharp against their flesh. Red eyes caught the twilit sun and seemed to glow. The children shuffled towards the abandoned stall carts, too tired to check their surroundings. They began to shovel handfuls of putrid, rotten food into their mouths. The flies crawled into their eyes and their ears. They didn't seem to notice.

Riza aimed her sniper rifle at the tallest one.

"Wait."

If the wind had been blowing in the opposite direction, Riza wouldn't have heard him. Kimblee's words were barely louder than the sound of her heartbeat pulsing in her ears.

"Leave them be. He's not there."

She pulled her rifle to her shoulder, watched the Ishvalans finish their meal. The sun set, throwing long shadows over the square. As night fell, the children scampered into the adjacent streets, moving away from Riza and Kimblee's hiding place. They were soon lost from sight.

"They always come crawling out of the woodwork," said Kimblee. He sighed. "You investigate one wobbly banister only to find your home infested with termites."

"My orders are to shoot any Ishvalans on sight." Riza's mouth was dry as she said it, her tongue like sandpaper.

"The shot and the ensuing screams would have betrayed our position, Cadet. The Eye in the Dark can't know we're here."

Kimblee made a good point. Riza felt a pain in her chest, a tension like taught piano wire. She was prepared to murder children while Solf J. Kimblee was prepared to save them. If there was a god, Riza thought he had a twisted, cruel sense of humor.

She leveled her gun towards the square. They would wait a little while longer before setting off the explosions; wait until the children were clear of Daliha, and the two soldiers were alone with the Eye in the Dark.

Riza settled down for a few more hours of silent observation. Kimblee, however, had other ideas.

"You have your father's hands, Cadet."

Riza couldn't help it; she flinched. She tried to hide the reaction with half-interested questions:

"You knew my father, sir?"

"In a very humble capacity. We crossed paths in East City, after a lecture. You were there, too."

"Was I?"

"Yes." Riza could hear Kimblee's smile on his lips. He sounded almost wistful. "Master Hawkeye had been carting an adolescent girl around with him. She had a mop of blond hair and large amber eyes. She didn't smile very much. When her father cared to lend her his ear, she wanted to know when they were going home."

Riza gripped her sniper rifle to keep her hands from shaking… or from punching Kimblee in the mouth. "You have a good memory, sir."

"I never forget a face."

"Yet I don't remember you."

"I was just a pair of eyes in the crowd. You have no reason to remember me. But I recognize your father's skill in your hands. They are capable, sure hands. The way you hold the rifle, load ammunition, adjust your sights… your every moment suggests a keenness and a care I have only ever seen in my kin. We humans are narcissistic creatures; we are quick to recognize our own traits in others. You have the hands of an alchemist, Miss Hawkeye."

"Respectfully, Major Kimblee, sound carries well from this spot, and if the Eye in the Dark is in the vicinity, he is liable to hear us."

"That is a very diplomatic way of telling someone to shut up, Cadet."

"I wouldn't know, sir."

Kimblee chuckled. "You must forgive me; I like to know the people I'm working with."

"I am a simple person, sir. There really isn't anything to discuss."

"If I remember correctly, which I invariably do, Berthold Hawkeye was notorious for his disdain of the state alchemy program," Kimblee continued like he hadn't heard her, "I can't imagine he was particularly pleased to hear of your commission, Cadet."

"I enlisted after we buried him, Major. The dead forfeit their right to their opinions of the living."

Even as she said it, Riza knew the words weren't entirely true. The ghosts of the people she had killed in Ishval would haunt her forever. Their opinions of her were like bloodstains on her clothes.

"I joined the military so I could serve my country in a time of great crisis," she said, in a tone that brooked no further conversation. "That's all there is to it."

"You're lying."

Riza said nothing. Instead, she took a deep breath. She tried to imagine herself back at the shooting range at the academy, up before the sun rose, alone with the straw dummies and the morning chorus. The mist hung low over the ground and dew bejeweled the grass. Riza tried to remember that serenity, when nothing else in the world mattered besides taking out the next red target. Those short, bright moments when she gloried in her solitude, but felt far from lonely.

She felt the calm diffuse through her. Riza finally began to relax.

"Berthold Hawkeye was master to Roy Mustang, was he not?"

The serenity evaporated. Riza's trigger finger twitched.

"Yes sir," she said stiffly.

Kimblee made a small sound in the back of his throat, almost like a hum. "I helped to proctor his state alchemy exam. Imagine it: this little Xingese half breed from the East, with no family legacy, no money or influence to his name, who ten years previously had shown minimal alchemical prowess and had proven himself a mediocre cadet at the academy, walks into the examination chamber and sets the Amestrian banners ablaze. The smell of burning cloth, the tendrils of smoke that curled across our faces, the red bloom of the fire as it sucked the oxygen from our lungs… it was glorious.

"But Berthold Hawkeye would not have surrendered his knowledge of flame alchemy to a dog of the military, to the machines of war he so despised. So, I asked myself, who was it that kindled that feeble spark that was Roy Mustang into the Flame Alchemist? And I ask you, Riza Hawkeye, are you pulling that trigger to protect the man who firebombs entire cities, or are you protecting the transmutation array tattooed on your back that gave him the power to do so?"

Riza took a measured, steady breath. "Major?"

"Hmm?"

"You're quite insane, sir."

* * *

The chill night air clung to him, but Roy liked it. It was a welcome change from the heat of the day. Sometimes he felt as though he had molten lava running through his veins instead of blood. Thinking back, his physical had been an interesting experience. Roy had had some explaining to do to Dr. Knox, the combat medic, about why, exactly, he was still alive when he was pulling a 105 degree fever. Roy smiled ruefully. Of course the Flame Alchemist had to get stationed in the damned desert.

He had always preferred the cold. Roy found the prospect of a post at Briggs or North City enticing, but Colonel Armstrong scared the living piss out of him. She had chased him far away from any thought of serving up north. He had to make due with the chilly desert nights.

A flash of color caught Roy's eye. He kept his thumb and forefinger pressed together as he scanned the rooftops. The stars were bright enough to see by, and Roy spied a dash of red chalk on the cornerstone. He nodded to himself; at least he was headed in the right direction.

The buildings were abandoned. Dust and sand blew across the thresholds of empty doorways. The quiet made Roy feel ill at ease. Silence in a war zone was unnatural. The sound of bombs and machine gun fire had become a dull background buzz in the moments between the fighting. It lulled Roy into a thin, fitful sleep every night. But recent days had been too quiet. The world felt empty, like it was lacking something.

Roy hated that he missed it. Sometimes he felt like an addict, desperately scrabbling for another fix.

He wondered if the addiction had ensnared Cadet Hawkeye yet. He tried to brush the thought away and failed. The sight of her in her tent hadn't left him, though he wished it would. They were dangerous memories. She was his master's daughter; she was his subordinate; she was so indomitably beautiful that it made something in his chest tauten like piano wire. He remembered the constellation of freckles on her pale skin, a fading purple bruise on her shoulder from where the stock of her rifle recoiled, the sweat pooled in the small of her back. And, of course, the array, tattooed in red ink across her spine.

Roy remembered the first time he had seen it, how sick it had made him. Because of the sheer volume of information the tattoo contained, and because he knew Riza had not put it there herself.

The Flame Alchemist felt that same bile rising in his throat when he imagined Kimblee's fingers on her, taking what he wanted. It would be so easy. Kimblee didn't even have to get his hands dirty. He could alchemize a controlled combustion, concentrating the reaction to the size of a bullet hole, making it look as though Hawkeye was sniped by the Eye in the Dark when actually…

Roy's stomach lurched. Realization hit him like one of Armstrong's hugs, driving the air from his lungs.

_Riza…_

Then the explosions started, echoing out across the Daliha District. Roy began to sprint, no longer caring if he was seen. He had to reach them. He had to stop Kimblee.

"Hold on, Cadet," he muttered through gritted teeth. His chest began to ache. "Hold on."

* * *

Riza saw the shadowy figure moving through the western sector, mere moments before Kimblee did. She took aim. The alchemist jumped to his feet, muttering obscenities she couldn't hear.

"Target spotted, Major," she said brusquely.

The figure darted between the buildings, moving fast. He disappeared into and out of doorways, clambered over the low walls surrounding the compounds. She could track him, but the Eye in the Dark was moving too quickly for a clear shot.

"Sir, I can't get a fix on him."

"Then I had better get started, hadn't I?" said Kimblee. He stood beside Riza at the edge of the rooftop. She felt the air shudder, static crackle along her scalp. She glanced up at Kimblee. The alchemist raised his hands towards the city, palms up. Tendrils of energy rippled along his arms. Red lightning jumped between his fingertips. There was a sound like a long, tired sigh. Then the buildings at the edge of the Daliha District exploded.

The shockwave rippled through Riza's bones. She bit her tongue and tasted blood. Kimblee kept his arms outstretched, and the explosions thundered in concentric circles, growing tighter and more volatile, corralling the shadowy figure towards the square.

Riza heard a guttural growl. It took her a moment to realize the inhuman sound came from the man standing next to her. "I'll be back."

Her head snapped up. "Sir?"

"You stay here, Cadet. That's an order."

"Major? Major Kimblee!"

But he was already gone, vaulting from the roof. He landed heavily on his feet and took off at a run into the darkness. An explosion sounded behind Riza, temporarily deafening her, throwing shrapnel in all directions. She ducked for cover, and when she peered over the edge of the roof, Kimblee was nowhere in sight.

"Damn him!" she seethed. She hefted her rifle and ran for the stairs…

* * *

Shit. Roy Mustang dodged a burning chunk of mortar. Shit shit shit shit.

Kimblee was tearing the place apart, forcing Roy towards the center of the district. It took every ounce of his concentration to dodge the debris. Hughes was right: the Crimson Alchemist had no concept of subtlety. He would destroy a city to kill an errant fly.

Roy rounded a corner, closing his eyes as he ran through a cloud of dust and sand. When he opened them, he saw Kimblee standing on the other side of the street. The firelight flickered across his face, and the red transmutation circles on his palms glowed like eyes.

"Kimblee, what the hell—"

"If you interfere, Roy Mustang," the Crimson Alchemist snarled, "I will hurt her in ways that would make you weep."

Roy's nostrils flared. He raised his gloved hands. "I'll kill you…"

"I'll break her."

Roy snapped his fingers. A column of white hot flame raced towards Kimblee, who clapped and raised his palms. Fire and lightning exploded in the street, blasting the buildings to rubble, tossing both alchemists like rag-dolls.

Roy landed on his back. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. Pain arced in every nerve ending. He wanted to scream but couldn't find his voice. Panic clawed at him.

He took a few slow, measured breaths. He began to steady himself, twitching his fingers and toes to make sure nothing too important had been broken. He blinked to clear the red spots pulsing in the corners of his eyes. When he stood, pain split his skull. But Kimblee was gone, and the street ahead was blocked by rubble.

"Shit," Roy said again, aloud this time.

* * *

Riza had to shield her eyes. The stars vanished as the explosion darkened the nighttime firmament. The shockwave nearly knocked her off her feet. A black cloud rose above the city. Ash rained from the sky.

She feared the worse. "Major Kimblee! Dammit, Kimblee, where are you?" she called out. Her throat was hoarse from the dust and the smoke.

Riza heard a grunt above the roar of the flames. In an instant, her rifle was at her cheek, her gun pointed in the direction of the square. A small, slight figure stumbled from the rubble, coughing.

Riza had to steady herself. The boy was Ishvalan, the oldest and tallest of the group they had seen earlier. His face was caked in grime. Some of his hair smoldered. He saw her, and he froze. His red eyes widened in horror.

"Stay right there," Riza ordered. The words made her throat burn.

She didn't think the boy could move even if he wanted to. He stood at an awkward angle, favoring his left leg. The bone was visible below the knee. His clothes were caked in blood. Through the tear in his shirt, Riza could count every one of his ribs, like exposed girders.

"What are you waiting for?"

Then Kimblee was at her side. She could feel the anger coiling off him in waves. When he pointed at the boy, Riza gasped. Kimblee's hand was horribly burnt, the transmutation circle mutilated beyond recognition. His alchemy was useless.

"Kill it," hissed Kimblee, his voice trembling with rage. He was in a lot of pain, but he hid it well under his anger.

Riza looked at the boy. He stared back at them uncomprehendingly, his eyelids heavy. He was going into shock.

"He's just a boy." Riza thought of lowering her rifle. "He's unarmed. This isn't our man, Major."

"It stayed behind when the others ran! It was coming back to kill us!"

"Where's his gun, sir?" demanded Riza.

Kimblee's blue eyes turned dark and ugly. "I took care of the weapon. But he fought back. I cannot alchemize, Cadet. You have to kill it yourself. You have to start thinking about why you're really here, Hawkeye. You have to start taking those difficult shots!"

The boy tried to hobble away. Riza shot the ground next to his foot. Her hands were shaking.

"Do it," snapped Kimblee.

"He's a child!"

"It's a killer!"

"I can't murder someone in cold blood!"

The boy began to cry.

"Take the shot! That's an order, Cadet Hawkeye!"

"Sir, I—"

Kimblee's voice was hot on her cheek: "If you can't end another's life, you'll never be able to protect his!"

A gunshot split the night. The boy fell. The stone behind him dripped scarlet.

Riza Hawkeye shouldered her rifle. She faced Kimblee, her expression impassive, as stoic as a statue. The Crimson Alchemist held his burnt, useless hands close to his chest, but he said nothing. There was nothing more to be said.

"Permission to return to base camp, Major?"

A nod. "Granted."

The young woman began the long walk through the smoke. Kimblee watched her go, her body silhouetted against the fire, her amber eyes the same color as the flame.

Riza Hawkeye burned. That night, she was the brightest thing in Ishval.

* * *

Roy clambered over the boulders littering the street. He was concussed. He had dislocated a shoulder. He ignored it.

He had to get to Kimblee.

He found him standing in the middle of the square. Above a dead Ishvalan boy, looking down at him like a dog turning its nose up at rotten food. If Kimblee noticed Roy, he didn't show it.

Roy bounded over to him. His hands found Kimblee's skinny neck; he pushed him against the rubble.

"You bastard…"

Kimblee's smile was filled with too many teeth. His wild eyes blazed. "Going to kill me, Flame Alchemist? That'd put a hiccup in those precious ambitions of yours, wouldn't it?"

"I don't care," he growled. "You killed seven of our friends."

"If we're playing a numbers game, Mustang, then statistically-speaking, those men likely would have died anyway."

Roy's fingers tightened. "Shut up! Red eyes in the dark," he looked down at Kimblee's limp, burnt hands, "your transmutation circles, glowing red from that damn Stone rotting inside your guts! Concentrated combustion, small enough to pass as bullet holes. I always wondered why you didn't eat with the other soldiers, Kimblee. Turns out it's because you're out murdering them!"

The pressure on Kimblee's windpipe didn't seem to be bothering him. He mused: "I wonder what your childhood chum would say if she could see you now? Is this the man she would follow to the front lines of hell?"

"I warned you, Kimblee… I warned you that if anything happened to her…"

"And nothing did. I have returned her to you with nary a scratch. You are free to mar her and mark her at your own discretion."

Roy saw red; he could have killed Kimblee for that. He forced himself to concentrate, to control the rage flashing behind his eyeballs. "Why did you do it? Why murder Amestrians… torture the cadet like you did…" Each word was like a firebrand on Roy's skin.

Kimblee made a harsh choking sound against Roy's hands. The Flame Alchemist realized in disgust that it was laughter.

"Ha ha, you thought I was after your alchemy! Ha ha ha ha ha!" Kimblee howled with laughter, his narrow chest heaving with the effort.

"TELL ME WHY!"

"Because she needed it," hissed Kimblee. Roy's grip slackened slightly.

"What…"

"Riza Hawkeye… she has something to fight for, now. I have achieved perfect equivalence."

Roy's expression twisted into something ugly, almost inhuman. Anyone other than Kimblee would have whimpered. "You took someone I cared about and forced her to act against her will… for your own sick diversions. You sadistic son of a bitch."

"You should be thanking me, Mustang. I crafted you the perfect soldier."

Roy threw Kimblee against the wall. The Crimson Alchemist took several heaving gulps of air, struggling to straighten himself. His legs were shaking. Roy fought the urge to kick his kneecap, make his limbs bend in ways they weren't supposed to…

"I'll make the report to Hughes," said Roy haggardly. "They'll court marshal you, put you up in front of a firing squad. It's too clean a death for scum like you."

Kimblee wouldn't stop smiling. There was blood in his mouth. "You won't say a word, Roy Mustang."

"Watch me."

"You won't say a word because Riza Hawkeye just murdered a sick, starving child, and she did it because I told her to. She cut down an innocent soul on behest, not on military prerogative. Death is so much more intimate for snipers. We wouldn't know; we alchemists destroy indiscriminately. But how heavy is the memory of a child's eyes as the life is snuffed out of them? Do you know the answer, Flame Alchemist? Because she does."

Roy had to steady himself on the pillar. He felt like acid was dripping down his throat. If word got out that Kimblee murdered those men, that the only Eyes in the Dark were two transmutation circles powered by a Philosopher's Stone, that Riza had gunned-down an innocent kid… she would shoulder the burden of shame for the rest of her life.

Or until she cut her life short. Riza Hawkeye would end it. Roy was sure of it, because he would end it, too. If word got out, he would lose her forever.

He couldn't let that happen.

"You'll pay for this one day, Kimblee. Those dead men will have justice."

Kimblee lifted his head towards Daliha, to the concentric circles of cracked and crumbling buildings. In the East, the sun was beginning to rise. Bands of stars still twinkled at the edges of the sky. The morning arrived in arms of purple and gold.

"This desert land is the sepulcher of dead men once promised justice. Do you think their souls are at peace this morning, Mustang?"

"Is yours?"

Kimblee shrugged. "Many would justifiably say I don't have one." He began to wipe the sand off his trousers. "They are wrong. I hum my canticles for the forgotten gods, and my soul is at peace."

Roy trembled. With fury. With exhaustion. He wanted to light Kimblee on fire but he didn't have the stomach for it. Nothing made sense anymore, and everything hurt.

Roy didn't know if the future was forged by men like Führer Bradley, through willpower and sheer bloody-mindedness, if every person had a destiny that was somehow fixed, or if they drifted through life like ash on the wind, perambulating between the possibilities determined by formulae even alchemy couldn't map. He didn't know if he was tied to Riza through the secret of flame alchemy, if her choice was truly hers or merely a ghost of things destined to come to pass. He didn't know if any of this was ever meant to happen.

Kimblee groaned. The pain was catching up to him. "If you're not going to kill me, you ought to follow her, Mustang. Nothing makes humans quibble quite like a murder."

"She is stronger than she looks."

"You would know." At the sight of Roy's hard eyes, Kimblee began to laugh again. The sound was short and painful. His burnt hands trembled, but the Crimson Alchemist's smile was genuine enough. "Childhood friends and comrades in arms. Poetic, eh? Maybe you care far more than you ought to, Flame Alchemist. You may even love her. I don't know, and to be perfectly frank, I don't really care. But I like Riza Hawkeye. If she dies protecting you, I'll kill you myself."

Roy turned away, shame coloring his cheeks. "You needn't worry about that, Kimblee."

The Flame Alchemist straightened his gloves, the red transmutation array glowing in the predawn light. He began the long trek back to the Amestrian camp.

"Because I'll protect her first."

* * *

One War Later

It was Black Hayate's barking, rather than the banging on the door, that eventually woke her up. She pulled a pocket watch from her bedside table and stared at it blearily. It was very late. Too late for visitors, not that Riza Hawkeye had an overabundance of visitors anyway. It was either the Colonel or the Elric Brothers, and neither possibility boded well. Nothing good ever came of their housecalls.

There was a third possibility, one Riza tried not to think about as she tied her robe and slipped a pistol into her pocket. The Homunculi had come for her. The Führer had decided her usefulness had reached its end, and he had sent his siblings to finish her off. Just like they'd murdered Hughes…

Riza took a deep breath. She was being irrational. If Bradley lost her, he lost the Colonel. He was smarter than that.

Besides, why would the Homunculi bother with knocking?

Hayate growled, scratching at the door. Riza nudged him away before he scored the wood. She undid the latch and opened the door a crack. Her hand was in her pocket, on the stock of her gun.

"Hello?"

"Good evening, First Lieutenant. I apologize for waking you."

Riza's eyes widened. The man was tall and thin. He wore an immaculate white suit, the chain of a state alchemist's pocket watch hanging out of his coat. When he doffed his hat, Riza saw two transmutation circles tattooed onto his palms.

"Kimblee…" she breathed. "Are you here to kill me?"

He looked surprised. His face was thinner from his time in prison, his chin scratchier, but his eyes were the same. Steel blue, like the nightmare depths of the ocean, cold enough to kill.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"You were imprisoned for murdering officers."

"And now I stand before you a free man. In fact, we serve the same person, Lieutenant."

Riza's thoughts immediately turned to the Colonel, but he would rather get fashion advice from Edward Elric than take Kimblee into his employ. Then Riza remembered bitter recent circumstances, and she understood.

"You're working for the Führer."

"Indeed. And when I heard of his new adjutant, the woman with the amber eyes, arguably the foremost firearms expert in the Amestrian military, well… I never forget a face, Riza Hawkeye."

She glared at him. "So you thought you'd stop by my apartment at three in the morning just to catch up?"

Kimblee's wide, toothy grin suddenly vanished. He stared at her intensely, bolting her to the floor.

"I came here to give you a warning, Lieutenant," he said cooly. "There are plans in motion."

"I know that."

"The creatures who live in the shadows of this world are on the move. Your precious Colonel gambled, and now he's lost that which is most dear to him. My employers allow him his life because they need him for something more. He is essential to their plans. You, however, are not. The Homunculi are fastidious creatures, Lieutenant. Bradley is mindful of cleaning up after his messes. But the Führer has indulged me to an extent, allowing me my attachés. If you leave with me, now, you can escape Mustang's fate.

"But if you follow your colonel, you are going to die."

The silence hung heavily in the air. Even Hayate had gone quiet. Riza looked down at her little dog, who wagged his tail and nipped at her hand. She realized that she hadn't seen much of him since her transfer to the Führer's office. Maybe tomorrow she would take him for a walk in the park, after the sun set, and the sky burned like fire. She felt herself smiling.

"Then I will die," Riza decided. "There is nowhere the colonel can go where I will not follow. I said I would follow him into hell if he asked me. But the truth is, Kimblee, he doesn't even have to ask."

Kimblee looked satisfied with the response, as though he knew what she was going to say. "I wouldn't expect any less of you. Still, I can't fault myself for trying." He inclined his head, smirking a little. "I have business with Scar in the north. If our paths cross again, Riza Hawkeye, I suspect it will be under less friendly circumstances, and that will pain me very much indeed. In the meantime, protect your colonel; he needs you."

Kimblee reached for her. Riza's grip tightened on her gun, then the Crimson Alchemist pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. He bowed and turned towards the corridor, his white coat tails flapping around him.

He hummed to himself in the darkness.

Riza watched until he disappeared around the corridor. She knelt down and hugged Hayate. The little shiba inu licked the tears from her cheeks.

"You should know that I would do anything to protect him, Kimblee," she whispered. "After all, you're the one who created me."

She stepped inside her apartment, locking it behind her. She prepared for bed. Tomorrow was another day, and there was a lot of work to do.

The Colonel was waiting for her.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Lathe of Hell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576374) by [That Hoopy Frood (That_Hoopy_Frood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Hoopy_Frood/pseuds/That%20Hoopy%20Frood)




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